


The Girl who was Raised as a Dog

by vyoria



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Character Study, Gen, Loba is a shady bitch and nobody trusts her, the absolute lack of physical plot in this thing astounds me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyoria/pseuds/vyoria
Summary: "the [infant's developing] brain needs patterned, repetitive stimuli to develop properly. Spastic, unpredictable relief from fear, loneliness, discomfort, and hunger keeps a baby's stress system on high alert. An environment of intermittent care punctuated by total abandonment may be the worst of all worlds for a child."- Bruce D. Perry
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Close your eyes and sleep, ignore all the burdens that you keep

He got blood on her shoes. Revenant got blood on her authentic cruelty-free, custom battle ready shoes. He’d pay for that too. Soon, he’d pay for it all.

“Miss Andrade” the bassy voice of the Syndicate worker called to her. Loba’s head snapped forward, working her jaw, stare dead ahead to his green jeweled eyes, “look at the camera and state your name, age and interests please.”

The sudden pearly high laugh that echoed through the interview room, followed by a manicured tilt of perfect matte red lips – flawlessly captured by the studio cameras surrounding her – sounded dry to Loba’s ears. Hm. That wouldn’t do.

She swirled the cup of coffee offered to her by the production team, took a sip. 

(Tucked inconspicuously inside the carton sleeve of her cup, a phone number. She did so love when pleasure mixed itself with her business).

“But _monsieur_ Ferracini” she mimics her voice to a pout, her smile never goes away as the fingers of her free hand dance in an expansive motion “everybody who’s anybody knows who I am.”

Edgar Ferracini, forty-five, starting to go grey foxed, currently single but divorced twice, enjoys his women the same way he does his watches, silent, shining and adornable around his wrist; cuts an imposing figure with his boring black suits despite being only recently occupying the position of primary Segment Producer. 

Shaking his left wrist so his custom piece doesn’t snag on his sleeves as he crosses his arms, Ferracini drones once more:

“Not everyone has had the opportunity to meet your _respectable_ reputation Loba.” he gestures to the camera crew with his head. “This is to give our viewers some insight on your motivations, who you are.”

Loba finishes her coffee, analyzing for a moment the semi circular print her lipstick left on her cup.

“Miss Andrade was fine thank you, Edgar.” Her smile sobers into a mask: locked jaw, hard eyes, immaculate makeup. Loba deposits her empty cup to the little table next to her on the set, slipping the phone number inside her palm and folding her other hand over it, both of them positioned on her knee, her booted legs crossed.

She does not miss the way Ferracini’s eyes rake across her legs, hoping to add her to his momentary collection of prizes. A fuckable date or two, he couldn’t possibly expect to make a married woman of Loba Andrade.

For her part, she considered for a brief interval ripping off his eyes for her collection of stones. Such a fanatical gleam of emerald he had on his person, she would like to take it home with her…

* * *

home...

* * *

...home…

* * *

...home…

* * *

_Don’t play with your food my daughter, it’s not polite._

_But momma, Antônio does it all the time!_

_Antônio is a cat darling,_ his dad would tell her, getting ready to pounce on her and tickle her belly, _and you’re our lobinha._

* * *

The squeals of laughter dies in her ears as the soft whirr of the camera lenses focusing on her adjusted on a set faked to look like a cozy and lived in living room. Ahead of her, the crew, blinding stage lights and Edgar.

Her smile, this time all teeth, isn’t made any less perfect by the smudge of her painted blood stained-like lips.

“My name is Loba Andrade, I’m 34 years old and–” she licks her lips and teeth for good effect, “I am a man-eater and a ladykiller. I enjoy the variety.”


	2. And one way or another when I step in the room, everybody better bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shallow emotions: when [sociopaths] show what seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion it is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive. Outraged by insignificant matters, yet remaining unmoved and cold by what would upset a normal person. Since they are not genuine, neither are their promises."

“You blew up my arena.” the girl said by way of introduction.

Loba Andrade was never caught off guard. To assume such a thing would mean she’d be serving sentence for her many extra curriculars prior to her admittance on the Apex Games. Her _career,_ she had to remind Edgar off the record, she wasn’t simply a performance monkey she’d churn out tricks for petty cash and he’d do well to remember that.

After that, Ferracini's twin jeweled eyes became a touch duller, his smile like sour grapes. _Stick to your wrist trophies playboy,_ Loba thought with a vindictive swing to her hips as she waltzed away from him, _I’m no prize to keep behind doors._

The twin stare of sapphire behind bangs of spun gold hair and uneven patterned scar on the girl’s right cheek, was a far more pleasant sight to consider.

Despite the words there didn’t seem to be any accusation on her features, but curiosity danced between her eyes, frustration down the path of her nose to her lips. At Loba? Herself, for not predicting a stranger with a burning path of vengeance in her mind and perhaps a one too well placed frag bomb? What kind of redundancy plan would even that be?

“Do you like my new lipstick, _madame la louve_?”

Loba blinked back up to the girl’s eyes. Then, back at her mouth. She was wearing no lipstick.

Huh.

Touché.

“It’s a lovely nude” Loba recovered, “I would love to know the name of the shop–”

“My arena, arsonist.” Well now there was the judgement, cute accent though. “Why?”

“I’m not a girl who kiss and tells.” She makes a show of inspecting her nails. Her polish got chapped by the recoil of the carbine earlier, escaping the underground cave. She made a mental note to switch brands. “I need a little romance first.” Loba smiles, a good deal more of lips than teeth, alluring. 

Stretches her hand.

“Loba Andrade,” she drawls the ‘r’ a little, an unnecessary introduction. “pleasure to meet you–” she stops mid-sentence, an acrobat holding her breath, waiting for the rope to snap in two at any moment.

When their hands meet, Loba didn’t expect her callouses to meet palms as rough as her own, she smiles a little bit more brilliantly when she gets regaled with a “Natalie Paquette.”

She breathes out.The show goes on.

Loba holds the girl’s hand between two of her own and the common room – where all the arena combatants are currently unwinding from an interrupted game – falls into a tense silence as Loba, steady as a gunshot, lowers herself to kiss Watson's bare knuckles. 

Loba looks from under her lashes to gauge the girl’s reaction, keeping an ear out to the room at large. At the edge of her peripheral, she sees one of the legends – Elliot Witt, beside someone else she doesn’t recognize – holding back the arm of a short brunette and whispering something urgently to her. The soldier woman who started an argument against her presence on the Games has her arms folded, frowning disapprovingly as a mother who recently discovered her son’s under the bed porn stash. Most of the legends, however, aggressively pretend this live novela is none of their business, which suits Loba just fine.

Revenant nowhere in sight. A win/win scenario really.

She’s delighted to see the girl coloring under her gaze, heat travelling down the scar on her cheek under the navy turtleneck she wears. It’s a delicious pink, good enough to eat.

Straightening up, still holding the hand between hers, she breathes. “I am _so_ sorry for your arena, I should have known, you are the engineer no? Luc’s daughter. Designed the ring yourself?” A calculated error. “I–

“I didn’t design it.” storm in her eyes, from brilliant sapphire to foggy agate. “Alone I mean. My father–”

“Of course, of course.” Loba patted her hand reassuringly. “He must have been very proud.”

“He was.” Wattson looks at their joined hands, delicately detaches her hand from Loba’s fingers. “Is this why you’re here?” She stands closer to the woman, bowing her head forward to whisper conspiratorially, as if the entire room already wasn’t paying attention to them.

“He said you came to kill him. Did the simulacrum hurt someone close to you?”

Loba’s smile dissolves. Her hands reflexively rest to hold her staff a little tighter, her left thumb running over the wolf’s silver snout. “I don’t kiss and tell, love.” She reminds Wattson. 

Tapping her staff to the ground and securing it under her arm, Loba nods her goodbyes to the engineer, but before she can leave, the girl makes a grab for her elbow.

They both freeze in place. Loba barely manages to contain a snarl ready to jump from her throat, but her eyes must have bled some animosity because, as if shocked, Wattson drops her hand and profusely apologizes. 

“I meant to say,” she scrambles for something to say, surprised Loba's still there in front of her. “I have wine– good! good wine! – and I was wondering how your bracelet worked…” she trailed off, blushing to the tips of her hair now. 

Loba’s smile came back with a vengeance.

_Gotcha._

“I’d love to,” Raising her hand to the girl’s scarred cheek, Loba tucks a strand of spun gold behind her ear, “Natalie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once more I continue to not knowing *what the fuck* is going on within MY OWN STORY.


	3. Foreign and mysterious, towers of red and gold, as cold as ice. Those who really know you, know that a fire burns in you so hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency: usually has a history of behavioral and academic difficulties, yet 'gets by' by conning others. Problems in making and keeping friends; aberrant behaviors such as cruelty to people or animals, stealing, etc."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference in case anyone wants it, Crypto is wearing his Hired Gun skin for the gala, Loba is wearing her Bootlegger skin, although I did not give her any clothing descriptors; y'know like a chump.

She says the word _‘friend’_ like a threat. She walks like the world is watching and she has something to prove. her file is immaculate in such a way Crypto knows it to be a filthy lie.

He’s familiar with lies and its liars. He digs up their dirt for a living. They forced him to become one. For Mila. For himself.

Loba is a liar he doesn’t fully grasp the whole picture of. And that bothers him. Much like himself, she keeps the location of her den a secret. She’s in the system – of course she is, everyone is, even he was at some point – one particular adoption agency’s record states several unsuccessful attempts of parents starting up the process, only to quit midway with growing complaints of Andrade’s disappearances and missing items from their homes. Most of them jewelries, some of them inane trinkets the parents reported to have a deep bond with.

The girl was a menace even as a kid. Still, her record remains clean. If she was ever caught pulling something major after she became of age, whoever she paid did a good job of scrubbing it from the system. She has no birth certificate, Crypto’s looked. She has a habit of paying for everything in cash, doesn’t own a car, uses aliases in high end hotels, never is on the invited list of any VIP parties she attends but always seems to be there as someone else’s plus one. Sometimes a bachelorette will report her wallet missing from her purse, others a balding CEO will note his gold cuff-links disappeared. Most of the time though? She seems to behave herself.

Don’t get your meat where you get your bread. Although Loba does seem to enjoy buying her beer and wine from the same bodega.

She always manages to give his drone the slip though. Sighing and leaning away from his keyboard, Crypto considers a different approach.

Opening the drawer under his desk he fiddles with the invitation. The Syndicate’s throwing a party in two weeks to convene the legends for a different gathering than the usual rounds of Games; to commemorate their highest ratings yet, since Loba joined. Invite states cocktail attire; everything will be recorded of course. Head of creative pitched a new type of scenario to encourage the public’s favorite players to interact, everything neatly tucked away with new NDA’s to sign.

He was vehemently against this deal, although other legends were quicker to agree (Elliott was many things – intelligent even, Crypto had to acknowledge – a slut for attention was also one of them). His NDA kept unsigned, Developmental refused to take the invitation back in case he ‘changed his mind.’

Defeated, he took his coat, his drone, wallet and keys, locked behind him four times, adjusted the body heat scan and the EMP frequency to active and short range. Last time he miscalculated the old lady under him complained about missing a week’s worth of her doramas. 

He didn’t used to be away from his apartment for long, even when participating at the Games, looking for data to the people who hurt Mila was almost exclusively a cyber activity. But Loba Andrade is quite taken with her daily dose of fresh air, he’d have to adapt.

Taking the subway, mixing with a crowd none the wiser, still blending in despite having his face plastered on every TV so often was at least one thing he could find some enjoyment in.

Crypto took Loba’s advice and made the trip to a tailor outside of his district, hell, outside of many of districts _closer_ to his district, had his measurements taken – no tie, he specified –, paid in cash. On the way back, bought a pair of black shoes to match and hair pomade.

For once, he didn’t worry about the NDA.

He’d sign later.

* * *

Loba walked into the event the same way Crypto diagnosed her to walk to every other high caliber party she’d ever attended. Dressed to kill and with a smart date by the elbow. The Paquette girl, of all people. This time – however – Loba had found herself invited. Whether she’d strike or not, remained the suspense.

He’d didn’t go for her right on, opting to stay back and observe the gathering of civilians (rich, connected, business owners civilians) trying their best to fawn over her, Loba picking each and every one of them up like flies trapped in honey, all sharp smiles and pearly laughs. The whole ventriloquist affair.

“Disgusting.” Blinking away from the scene, Crypto turned his head to find Wraith standing beside him, materialized seemingly out of nowhere, drinking in the scene set in front of them, holding a glass of wine – untouched – in the hand where usually her inter-dimensional device rests.

The production crew had drafted a list of drinks and preferred food sent for the approval of the legends attending, with the goal to meet out every want they could possibly have at this gala (short of a statue in Mirage’s honor, much to the old man’s chagrin and Octavio’s disappointment at his request for a racing cart event barred), there was very little reason to believe Wraith would be talking about the drink in her hand.

For both their sake he pretends otherwise.

“You should probably try something stronger.” he says tentatively. He’s not very good at small talk, he doesn’t _want_ to make any small talk with Wraith, the second most _‘if you get in my personal space I will snap your spine in two’_ person he’s met, barring himself. They have an unspoken respect towards one another, he stays out of her way, she stays out of his. They both have secrets and identities to protect, they don’t need to go about ruining this relationship with a talk about _feelings_.

Crypto nods towards the bar for effect, where Elliott is currently doing his best Mirage clone guessing game to impressionable rich fangirls. He’s going to get punched in the face by one of their jealous boyfriends until the event is over. It’ll be fun.

Wraith mercifully takes his suggestion and tags to the bar after a very brief “Keep an eye on the wolf”, midnight shimmering navy blue dress rustling along as she walks, a perfect companion piece – Crypto notices despite his best efforts _not_ to get involved – to Wattson’s chalk grey tuxedo. 

* * *

The solid pressure in his stomach, building up throughout the night – which had absolutely nothing to do with the shot of _soju_ he drained from a passing waiter – pitfalls into absolute dread when Loba decides to lead Wattson by the elbow to the dance floor. (Makoa already there, laughing good-naturedly with Pathfinder in his arms who’s making content _choo-choo_ train noises inter spaced with his exclamations of how delightful the food he could not eat was; as well as an overtly drunk Octane with a suit shirt ripped at his arms, mask, black tie and shorts being womanhandled by a Ajay who was having the time of her life spinning him around, presumably to watch him puke his guts out).

Crypto dares a (rather controlled) panicked glance to the bar, where he had previously shooed Wraith to, praying she hadn’t left her spot. She was observing the whole farce of Loba sliding her hands over Wattson’s shoulders with a far too calculating expression to put him at ease, three glasses of Appletini in. 

Oh no.

He has to make his move fast before she does or else his bullshit NDA signing will be for naught. Also to spare Wraith from doing something she might regret in _intergalactic_ television. Fuuuck he wasn’t made to babysit his lesbian senior.

She owes him _big_ after this.

Wattson is about to settle her hands on the curve of Loba’s hips, the few silent seconds of transition from one music to the next, when Crypto (cursing this entire gala to kingdom come) all but sprints to the couple, shoots an apologetic look to Wattson before grabbing one of Loba’s hands from Natalie’s shoulder’s, loops his other arm to her waist and – to his own horror – twirls her to his arms.

If Loba looks surprised, she’s yet to rip his head off for it. He files away the thought that, right in this moment, he wishes she’d do it so he could at least be significantly less embarrassed in death.

The party goers gasp and whisper and Crypto curses inwardly, he can already see the gossip tabloids about his romantic affections for Loba Andrade. If Mila could see this, she’d never let him hear the end of it. He had two weeks to plan in advance and _this_ is the end result. 

Fuck his life.

“My my.” Crypto didn’t think dogs could purr. Somehow, Loba succeeds. “If you wanted a date that much all you had to do was ask beautiful”

He grits his teeth, a headache already forming at the front of his head, “Don’t you tire of ruining other people’s lives?”

Loba, meanwhile, smiles all teeth. “We’re already at our break up speeches then? For such a dramatic entrance you sure seem to _fizzle out_ fast.”

She loops both hands at the back of his neck, playing with the fuzz of his undercut; Crypto is starting to wonder if direct surveillance really was the best tactic he could come up with.

He sees Wattson sheepishly walk away from the dance floor and he feels a pang of regret right beside where the _soju_ sits in his stomach, he cranes his neck a little further at the bar, Wraith gives him a small nod, grateful, then picks herself up to join Natalie to the exit, reaching to touch the young girl’s shoulder.

His shoulders sag a little bit with released tension. _Well, that’s at least one better ending._

Loba’s hand cups his cheek and brings their gazes back together, she steps closer to his personal space, pressing their fronts together.

The tension is right back over him like it never left.

“So,” she drags her long nails down his cheek, across the metal plate on his jaws. She does a show of dusting invisible specs off the black overcoat he wears above his bionic enhancements on his torso, now obscured over a black shirt suit. “what else did you have in mind for me, beautiful?”

He is fucking _never_ going to dance again in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loba flirts with Crypto and I apologize profusely for this, she doesn't mean anything by it! It's just how she is.  
> Apparently this Loba character study is just an excuse for darksparks jealousy subplot (that will not be tagged bc I'm not fucking evil).

**Author's Note:**

> Don't expect me to know where this is going, if anywhere at all.


End file.
